


just to follow the siren

by Rainbowcat



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergent, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-05-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 16:47:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 18,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23830297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rainbowcat/pseuds/Rainbowcat
Summary: There is a story in which Andrés kisses Martín and leaves, walks out the door and never looks back.But it is not this story.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote
Comments: 151
Kudos: 416





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Alternate title: "this shit probably sounds better in Spanish"
> 
> Actual title from [Chalk](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H1j1DqgHysw) by Blanco White, which is a Berlermo song if I've ever heard one.

  
_“It may seem impossible, and this seeming impossibility makes it very pretty.”  
-Berlín, 3x2_

There is a story in which Andrés kisses Martín and leaves, walks out the door and never looks back. 

There is a story in which Andrés and Sergio, no regrets, no remorse, plan a heist on the Royal Mint of Spain so revolutionary it threatens to unravel the fabric of capitalist society. 

There is a story in which Andrés - alias Berlín - sacrifices himself in the Mint to save his companions, and he and Martín, estranged for the past two years, never have the chance to say goodbye.

But it is not this story.

*

When Andrés leaves, Martín drinks the bottle of wine he’d taken out only a minute ago. Then he drinks another. It’s possible - probable - he keeps drinking after that, but he doesn’t remember.

He does remember the tears, the howling, bruising his knuckles on the stone wall of the chapel. He remembers singeing his fingertips in the candles in a futile attempt to burn Andrés’ portrait. He remembers burying his face in Andrés’ pillow and breathing and breathing his scent until his nose can’t distinguish it anymore.

This is how Sergio finds him a day and a half later: passed out on Andrés’ bed, reeking, still wearing the clothes he was when Andrés left him.

Oh, God - Andrés left - him -

“What the hell,” Sergio mutters. He rolls Martín onto his back and pries open one of his eyelids. “What the fuck is going on? Where’s Andrés?”

“It seems your dear brother has departed for good,” Martín says. “You were wrong, Sergio. About him. The plan. And me. It turns out, none of us was faithful.” He laughs until he sobs, then leans over the edge of the bed and throws up into the trash.

Sergio averts his eyes. “What is this, Martín.”

“This?” Martín wipes his mouth. “This is a hangover. Can you make yourself useful and get me some fucking water? Or wine? Or do I have to do fucking everything myself?”

Sergio ducks out, returns with a glass of water. He sits - carefully - on the edge of the mattress and doesn’t watch as Martín swallows it in two gulps.

“You’re sleeping in his bed.”

“Your powers of observation are as strong as ever, my brother,” Martín snarls. It turns into a groan of pain and he lies back on the pillow. “I’m going to go in.”

Sergio turns to look at him.

“Into the Bank of Spain,” Martín says. “I’ll fucking go alone, I don’t care. If they don’t shoot me before I make it to the chamber, I’ll drown standing between piles of gold. Just how I always wanted to go.”

“You’re not going,” Sergio snaps. “What are you, crazy? Andrés is gone. The plan is off.”

“Then I don’t fucking care anymore,” Martín says and rolls over, toward the wall. “Leave me alone. I don’t need you or him.”

Sergio bows his head. For a moment, it seems like he, too, might get up and walk away. But then...

“Come on,” Sergio says in a low voice, and a pair of shockingly strong arms are hauling him off the mattress. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Martín doesn’t resist as Sergio half-drags him to the shower, doesn’t fight back when Sergio undoes his buttons and belt without looking him in the eye. He strips out of the rest of his clothes and lets Sergio wrangle him into the shower, where his screams turn into sobs turn into hoarse whimpers.

Sergio doesn’t say anything when Martín emerges nearly half an hour later, just hands him a towel.

*

“What the fuck,” is the first thing Sergio says when Andrés picks up the phone.

“Language, hermanito,” Andrés chides with a low chuckle.

“You don’t get to determine what the fuck I say right now, you son of a bitch,” Sergio says.

“Is that any way to talk about our mother?”

“Where the _fuck_ are you?”

There’s a tiny pause. “Why, I’m about to pleasure Tatiana on the beaches of Bali. Can I call you back?”

“Liar,” Sergio says. “Stop fucking with me. In all the times you tried to hide from me, how often did you actually succeed? I will come get you if I have to, and believe me, you do not want me to. Don’t you remember last time?”

“I love and cherish you as well,” Andrés says, and laughs.

“What the fuck did you do to Martín?”

Over the line, Sergio can hear Andrés suck in a breath, then exhale. “And how is my best friend?”

“He’s not your best friend,” Sergio growls, “and certainly not mine. What did you say to him?”

“I did what had to be done,” Andrés says calmly. “Look, you were right. Okay? There were flaws in our plans. But not the ones you so kindly and repeatedly yammered on about.”

“What?”

“We were compromised,” Andrés says, his tone unwavering. “And I couldn’t see it until you pointed it out to me.”

Sergio hadn’t expected, of all things, his brother’s sudden acquiescence. He flounders for a second. “So I - so you - you finally agree that Martín was in love with you?”

“In love?” Andrés laughs, loud and wholehearted. “Brother, I’ve known that since... hell, since the day we met. That wasn’t news.”

“Then what was?” In spite of himself, in spite of the entire goddamn point of this foolish phone call that’s probably exposing Andrés’ location with every passing second, Sergio is distracted, digging his nails into his palm. Somewhere in Andrés’ chapel, Martín is hopefully getting dressed, hopefully not discovering any of Andrés’ liquor stashes that Sergio hadn’t managed to purge.

Andrés snorts. “The things you don’t know about love could fill a book. Several books. I’m not going to spell this out for you over a phone call, okay? Tatiana and I have some unfinished honeymoon business, but let’s meet again in five days. I want to hear about your Royal Mint plan, because I’m sure it’s abysmal and riddled with holes. I’m going to help.”

“Five days,” Sergio repeats flatly.

“Exactly. Oh, and Florence is no longer viable as a hidey-hole, owing to the unfortunate fact that Martín, my love, is about to betray your location to the Italian police. Let’s meet outside of Madrid, yes? I’ve got a neat house in mind we can start to plan. It’s no monastery, but we’ll live in squalor for a while, I suppose.”

Sergio says nothing.

“It’s a shame. I really did like that chapel....”

*

“I don’t understand,” Sergio says finally.

He and Andrés are sitting outside at a chipped wooden table. A soft breeze stirs their hair, and Andrés is taking measured sips of his coffee.

At Sergio’s comment, he raises one eyebrow. “Well, that’s obvious. Which part isn’t clear to you?”

“The whole thing,” Sergio says. “I don’t - a mitochondrion?”

Andrés laughs and drains his cup. “An appropriate metaphor, isn’t it? Something so small, yet so powerful.”

“You spent,” Sergio’s gaze wanders into the distance, and his hands itch for chalk and a chalkboard, so that he can have a glimmer of hope in understanding Andrés’ thought process, “my entire visit to Italy... regaling me with stories about love. And, and betrayal. Living life ‘to the fullest.’ Pleasure.”

“Stories,” Andrés scoffs. “What is my life to you, a series of fairytales?”

“The opposite,” Sergio says. “But in the face of all of that, what does one percent matter?”

Andrés offers him a rare genuine smile. “He said the same thing, but maybe a little bit more desperately than you.”

“And?”

“And it doesn’t matter at all, don’t you get it?” Andrés suddenly slams the cup down and Sergio jumps. “Don’t you see? I don’t give a fuck. Yes, obviously, I love women. Sure, Tatiana might be upset if I started fucking Martín. Neither of those things would stop me from actually doing it if I wanted to, though I am trying to make my wife happy from time to time, even if you don’t believe me.”

Sergio flushes deep red. “So why not?”

“Why not?” Andrés throws up both hands. “I’m sure we’d be happy as a pair of dogs in heat, rutting against each other. Hell, even kissing him was like...” Andrés breaks off.

“Like?” Sergio prompts quietly.

Andrés’ voice is dry, businesslike. “Like I wanted to consume him. To own him. To make him mine, in every way.”

There’s a moment of silence. Sergio can’t help the thought that in every situation he’s lived through, in every scenario he’s run in his mind, he has never felt anything comparable to what Andrés is telling him.

Andrés could be spinning a yarn, for all Sergio knows. 

Andrés breathes out sharply. “But I’m not the problem. Despite all of that, I still love the plan more. Loved,” he corrects angrily. “Martín is the weakest link.”

“I don-”

“Listen!” Andrés says, and Sergio, to his alarm, sees the beginnings of tears glittering in Andrés’ eyes. “Listen! There were two ways this could have unfolded. One, I could have kept ignoring Martín’s feelings for me, the same way I had always done. And you were wrong, by the way. The plan was perfect. But Martín wouldn’t have been. His suppression of his feelings would have eventually led him to sacrifice himself for me - a loss no one could afford - or refuse to let me sacrifice myself, a possibility that had to be preserved at all costs.”

Sergio’s head jerks.

“Oh, will you stop reacting like that when I talk about dying? Grow up. Two, I could have given Martín what he wanted by taking him as a lover. Tatiana would’ve ceased to exist the moment we laid hands on each other,” he says, shaking his head. “But then what? From that moment on, having consummated the relationship, we would’ve achieved the status of something... godlike. Sacrosanct. Forgive me for sounding too egotistical, but... the plan would no longer be life-or-death in his mind. It wouldn’t be anything except some pretty words on a paper.”

Sergio looks at him.

“It’s his Tatiana,” Andrés says. “A delightful diversion until true nirvana can be reached.”

Sergio takes off his glasses and scrubs a hand over his eyes, feeling very tired and very old. His hands are shaking a little when he puts them back on.

Andrés rests a hand on his shoulder. “So you see why I did what I did,” he says, and if Sergio didn’t know better, he would think Andrés is imploring him to understand. “We were doomed either way. I had to tell him it was impossible. I had to show him, kiss him, to give him a taste of that impossibility. And then I had to break him.”

“We don’t kill in hostage situations,” Sergio warns.

Andrés looks at him with something akin to pity.

“You still don’t understand? Only by giving him everything, and snatching it away the next second, did I ensure our plan survived.”


	2. Chapter 2

Sergio isn’t speaking to Andrés.

Well, technically, they’re still _speaking_. They spend the next few days and nights beginning rough sketches, poring over maps and floor plans and security camera footage. They compare notes, trade ideas, and most importantly, start to monitor their potential recruits.

But they’re dancing around an elephant in the room, one Sergio can’t clearly identify and isn’t in the mood to analyze. Even as his mind sinks into the usual calm he feels when crafting a plan from scratch, something keeps gnawing at the corner of his thoughts. It’s about the way Martín had screamed and cried in the shower. And then, when Sergio had said goodbye and left for Spain, the way Martín, dead-eyed, had said nothing at all.

Even more cumbersome is the fact that Sergio can’t figure out _why_ it’s bothering him. He had wanted the Bank of Spain plan dead, the idea scrapped, and the most efficient way to do so was to sever the bond between Andrés and Martín. _The stronger something seems, the bigger its weaknesses,_ his father had taught him. _Finding and exploiting that weakness is the most efficient way to accomplish your goal._

It can’t be guilt, Sergio decides firmly. He knew breaking into the Bank of Spain was suicide; he’d done what was needed to protect all three of them. 

So why does he feel like his hand, and not Andrés’, had dealt the plan its final blow?

“I would strongly counsel against Silene Oliveira,” Andrés is saying to him now, for the dozenth time. “I’ve seen her in action; I know her M.O. When it comes to her peers, if she doesn’t fuck them, she’ll kill them. Sometimes both.”

“We need her,” Sergio, for the dozenth time, retorts. “She’s going to be something of a linchpin.”

“This?” Andrés says, sliding over a printed article announcing the death of someone Sergio doesn’t recognize. “Her boyfriend. Now ex, by virtue of his death. This is our linchpin?”

Sergio pushes up his glasses and ignores him. “Let’s talk about Ágata Jiménez.”

“What’s bothering you, hm?” Andrés draws a firm ‘X’ through Silene Oliveira’s face and leans back in his chair. “You’re acting strange.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Sergio snaps. Over the past few days, he hadn’t failed to notice Andrés slinking away each night and returning in the morning, tired but content. He knows where Andrés is going. “When are you going to tell me about your visits to Tatiana?”

Andrés frowns. “She’s my wife. Is that so taboo?”

“You’re not bringing her here.”

“Is that really the matter?” Andrés says. “You’re worried I’ll try to implicate her in this plan, too? Relax. She knows what we’re doing, but she’s agreed not to participate. Reluctantly, I might say. And you’re welcome for fighting that fight on your behalf. She didn’t speak to me for a whole evening.”

Sergio’s jaw clenches. “Martín isn’t speaking to you at all.”

“Ah.” Andrés’ eyes flutter open and closed. “So that’s your problem.”

“He’s going to do something reckless,” Sergio says. “If he doesn’t get himself killed, he’ll hurt one of us. Or someone else, like Tatiana.”

“It’s Martín, he’s always reckless,” Andrés dismisses. “He’s not going to hurt Tatiana. They love each other too, you know.”

Sergio is shaking his head. “He’ll eliminate anything that stands between you and him. You have to know this.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Andrés says, frown deepening. “Isn’t this what you wanted? Why else would you have stuck your nose somewhere that was never your business to begin with?”

Sergio pauses. “I’m just worried. That’s all.”

“Oh, _worried_?” Andrés mocks. “Please, don’t baby Martín. He’s a grown man. He can and will get over this, just like everything else. Someday, he and you will need each other to invade the Bank of Spain, and at that point he’ll have healed.”

The sound of Martín’s sobs is imprinted onto Sergio’s brain. “He’s never going to heal,” he says quietly.

“Okay, and suddenly you have a problem with that?” Andrés flies out of his seat, and Sergio rises to meet him. Nose-to-nose, they glare at each other, neither moving a muscle. “And for that matter, can we discuss your excessive interest in my relationships? Huh? From the day you arrived in Italy, all you ever did was meddle. With Tatiana, with Martín. What is it to you whom I fuck? Whom I love? If you don’t trust me to keep clean, why bring me into your little heists in the first place?”

Both of them are breathing heavily now, eyes flickering back and forth like they’re squaring up for a fistfight. 

“I do trust you,” Sergio says finally. He sits back down. “It’s Martín I don’t. As I’ve told you, he’s a loose cannon.”

Andrés takes a seat as well. “So? I’ve taken care of him. He isn’t our problem anymore.”

“Yes he is,” Sergio fires back. “Especially now that you’ve given him a cause to seek revenge. And he knows enough about our plans at the Royal Mint to become… a liability, so to speak.”

“A liability,” Andrés repeats.

Sergio blinks down at his hands. “You’ve handed him a loaded gun. All he needs to do is pull the trigger.”

Andrés jumps up again. “I’m going out,” he says, apropos of nothing. “I’m sorry that this worries you, but you’ve made your bed. As have I. I don’t care what ammunition you think Martín might or might not have. He’s not here now, is he?”

He slams the door on his way out. Sergio watches him leave, and then looks up at the chalkboard with its scrawled list of names.

“No,” he says aloud, slowly. “He isn’t.”


	3. Chapter 3

Over the following weeks, Andrés disappears for longer and longer stretches at a time, and this affords Sergio a window of opportunity to brainstorm a twist in his plan.

He has a name for the detour: Plan Palermo.

Andrés doesn’t make a secret of where he’s going; it’s easy enough to track his location to Tatiana’s little apartment on the outskirts of Madrid, and from there, to the various jewelers, watchmakers, and luxury boutiques they hit together.

Frankly, Sergio is embarrassed on Andrés’ behalf. These aren’t heists - they’re petty robberies, so mindless and easy any common thief would get away with them. Not art, but pornography. It’s vulgar.

Still, Andrés is blowing off steam, which plays right into Sergio’s hands. He needs Andrés distracted, and he needs Andrés in a relatively level state of mind for what comes next.

Covertly, he starts recording his brother’s voice.

It takes weeks for the pieces to fall into place, weeks more for the logistics to be squared away. By the time he’s ready to receive the transport, autumn has arrived in the countryside. A stiff wind is blowing the leaves from the trees, even as the sun still warms his face and his hands during his morning jogs. In the afternoons when Andrés is there, they sit outside in the last rays of warmth, wrapping their hands around tall mugs of tea and mulled cider, passing paperwork back and forth.

Sergio schedules the arrival for the night after Andrés returns from one of his jobs, a small diamond boutique in the suburbs of Segovia. As always after a successful hit, Andrés looks drained but at ease, humming to himself as he wipes the chalkboard clean and updates their binders.

Just after sunset, they hear the sound of tires on gravel.

Sergio and Andrés look at each other. Calmly, Andrés slides his gun out from his belt, loads and cocks it.

“I don’t think you’ll need that, brother,” Sergio says.

“No?” Andrés raises an amused eyebrow. “Are you perhaps expecting company without telling me?”

Sergio takes a deep breath and heads downstairs.

There’s a knock on the door. Andrés has followed him down on silent feet and is aiming his pistol squarely at the door. Sergio looks back at him; Andrés gestures with the gun. “Go on, then.”

Sergio closes his eyes. Despite his faith in his own plans, his almost preternatural ability to anticipate what others never can, he sends a silent prayer to whomever might be listening in the heavens. And opens the door.

“Buenas noches,” says Martín, deep and playful. “May I come in?”

Sergio steps aside, keeping his head bowed.

“Andrés,” Martín says. Two syllables so breathless, Sergio feels lewd just for having listened to them. “You called for me.”

He breaks into a jog toward Andrés. For a split second, Andrés hesitates, his gun wavering in his hands. Sergio’s heart leaps-

And in a flash, the pistol is aimed squarely at Martín’s chest.

“Stop where you are.” Andrés’ voice is so low it’s barely above a thrum. His face has turned to stone; his eyes are murderous.

Martín comes to a halt, mouth open. He cycles through a series of expressions, vulnerability scrawled on his face, and a wave of remorse crashes over Sergio before his self-preservation instincts take over. Sergio backs toward the opposite wall.

“Andrés - what-”

“On your knees,” Andrés barks.

Martín sucks in a breath. Tears are pooling in his eyes.

“You called me,” he gasps. “You said my name. You told me to join you.”

“And why the fuck,” Andrés says, cold and terrible, “would I have ever done that.”

Martín’s eyes flick to where Sergio is doing his best to blend into the curtains. “You told me-”

“On the ground, _now_!” Andrés roars.

Martín staggers back as if wounded. Sergio darts forward - but then Martín’s pulled out his own gun, brandishing it back at Andrés.

“YOU SAID YOU LOVED ME, YOU FUCKING BASTARD-”

“ENOUGH!” Sergio steps between them, holding a hand out in either direction.

“If I have to shoot through you to get to this worthless son of a bitch, I’ll do it in a heartbeat,” Martín shrieks, spit flying from his mouth.

Andrés laughs, a sound bordering on hysteria. “Oh, I’d like to see you _try it_ -”

“I’ll kill you both, you motherfuckers, you spineless pieces of shit-”

A shot goes off. Sergio’s hands fly up to cover his head.

To his left, Andrés’ is pointing his gun at the floor.

The silence that follows is deathly.

“You’ll never have the balls,” Andrés whispers.

Martín is panting. His breaths are coming in short, labored bursts. Tears are streaming down both cheeks.

“Sergio,” Andrés says. His voice is icy. “I want a word. Alone.”

He vanishes up the stairs. Sergio watches his coat swish out of sight and approaches Martín, hesitant. 

“Are you okay?”

Martín doesn’t seem to hear him. His gaze is elsewhere; he’s retreated someplace beyond the physical, somewhere inside himself. Sergio murmurs something vague, leads Martín to the couch and sits him down. As he does, he carefully pries the gun from Martín’s hands. It isn’t loaded.

Sergio rubs a circle on Martín’s back and heads into the kitchen, coming back with a glass of whiskey.

Martín takes it from him and mutters something Sergio can’t hear.

“What was that?”

“I said,” Martín repeats at normal volume. His eyes meet Sergio’s. “That I’m going to kill you.”

Sergio’s blood runs cold. “Right,” he says. “Ah. You’ll have your chance, I promise. Let me - I’m going to - let me, uh, go talk to him.”

He backs out of the room without ever taking his eyes off Martín. Just as Sergio’s heels hit the bottom of the staircase, Martín starts laughing like a jackal.

Sergio bolts up the stairs.

Andrés is at the front of the classroom, tapping his gun against his leg. He rises when Sergio enters.

“Sit,” Andrés says, and gestures with the pistol.

Sergio sits.

“Care to explain,” Andrés begins conversationally, “why the man whose heart I broke only a few months ago has mysteriously appeared on our doorstep?”

“Andrés,” Sergio says, urgent. “Listen to me. Martín was going to be a threat. You’re as sharp of a planner as I am, no? What do we do with threats? If we can’t _neutralize_ them, we put them where we can keep an eye on them. Right in our line of sight.”

“A threat?” The conversational tone vanishes abruptly. Andrés leans over Sergio’s desk, leering. “Is that what you would have called him? The man who cried himself to sleep and drank until he pissed the sheets after I left him?”

“You wouldn’t know,” Sergio says. “You weren’t there. You didn’t see him.”

“I didn’t _have to_!” Andrés says. There’s a _crack_ as he slams the gun against the table. “You want to call that miserable, weepy excuse for a human being a threat, fine. In your vernacular, I had neutralized him months ago. Months! And now what? Now you reawaken any potential he has to do harm, provide him a fresh incentive to target us - me - and deliver him neatly to our house, where he realizes that any hope he had was just a beautiful lie. Oh, well done!”

Sergio leaps to his feet. “So you admit he has the potential!”

Andrés stares at him, open-mouthed. “That’s your takeaway here? I thought you were done meddling, you bastard! What, did you just want to see the happy gang reunited? The dream team back together? Trying to break into the Bank of Spain after all, just with you at the helm this time, huh? Is that what this is all about?”

“No!” Sergio grabs two fistfuls of his own hair, trying to tame the urge to wrap his hands around Andrés’ throat instead. “I’m fucking trying to protect us!”

“And what better way than to bring an unhinged lunatic who wants to see us both dead directly into our home,” Andrés sneers.

“Better here than out there, damnit!” 

They stare at each other, breathing hard. Distantly, absurdly, Sergio wonders if it will always be like this: him and Andrés, twin stars, spinning around each other in a mad dance to the death.

“Right,” Andrés spits out. “Right. I’m leaving.”

“You can’t,” Sergio says quietly. His chest clenches in anticipation of the final blow he’s about to deliver his brother.

“As if you could stop me.”

“I already have.” Sergio steps around the desk and in front of the door. Andrés is putting on his coat, picking up the gun.

“Get out of the way.”

“Andrés,” Sergio pleads. “You can’t leave. I’ve made sure of it.”

Years of experience with the depths of Sergio’s schemes are likely what halt Andrés’ steps. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Sergio glances away and down. “The police have received extensive reports concerning the string of robberies that have plagued Madrid these past few months,” he says. “They have enough information to tie the crimes to Mr. and Mrs. de Fonollosa. UDYCO is raiding her apartment as we speak.”

“You’re lying,” Andrés says automatically.

“She’s okay, Andrés.” Sergio swallows. “She was notified in time by an anonymous source. She’s taken some assets and gone into hiding. But there’s a fresh warrant out for your arrest.”

Sergio looks up. Andrés’ gun is pointed into his face. The hand holding it is trembling.

“I’m sorry, brother,” Sergio whispers, and gently, almost lovingly, brushes the gun away. “The only way you can stay safe - stay hidden - is here.”


	4. Chapter 4

It’s a small miracle that Sergio wakes up the next morning alive.

He hadn’t slept well. He’d spent the night in his bed, smoothing nervous hands down his pajamas and jumping at every creak of the floorboards. After their fight, Andrés had gone back to his room and slammed the door, not making another sound for the rest of the evening. Martín, apparently, had passed out on the couch where Sergio left him.

At five in the morning, Sergio gives up on his restless dozing and tiptoes into the kitchen to prepare breakfast. Through the door to the living room, he can see the dark, still outline of Martín, huddled on the couch.

Sergio cooks heaps and heaps of eggs, entire trays of tostadas; he steeps no less than four varieties of tea. 

At half past seven, Andrés comes downstairs to join him at the table.

“Good morning,” Sergio says in a small voice.

Andrés ignores him and instead sprawls the day’s paperwork across the table. The edge of one of the files lands in a bowl of sauce. Nobody fishes it out.

It isn’t the worst breakfast Sergio has experienced, but it must be in the top five, he decides. The first was the morning after his dad died; Sergio had stood alone in the kitchen, struck by the awful revelation that he was hungry, and twisted by guilt for still being alive, for having the capacity to experience hunger. 

The second was after Andrés told him he was dying. They shared a table the next morning and Sergio had to watch as Andrés chatted on about battering rams and the temperature of melting gold, offering him biscotti at intervals.

This must be the third.

Around eight, Martín rises from the sofa. There’s a telltale sound of glass bottles knocking against each other, one rolling on the floor before coming to a wobbly halt.

Andrés doesn’t look up.

“Good morning, señores,” a voice slurs from behind them, overbright. “I hope you all had a pleasant night’s sleep.”

“Please sit,” Sergio says politely, nodding at the chair opposite Andrés. “Have an omelet.”

“An omelet?” Martín leers down at him. The smell of stale alcohol washes over Sergio, and he turns his head away. “You made fucking omelets?”

Martín picks up a fork and stabs one. The yolk bleeds over the plate. He shovels it into his mouth.

“Don’t mind if I do,” he says through a mouthful of food. “Isn’t this fucking adorable? You made us a feast, like we’re one happy family.”

“Martín, please,” Sergio says.

“Oh _please_ , oh _please_ ,” Martín says mockingly. “Please, mama, may I have a churro? Did you put some coffee in my milk, ma? Can you sprinkle it with extra sugar?”

“That’s enough,” Sergio hisses. 

“All good,” Martín says, slumping back in the chair. “Everything is good. I’m calm. I’m relaxed. Going to need my strength to murder you both today.”

Andrés, finally, puts down his paper. He hadn’t touched the food in front of him, just poured out one cup of unsweetened black tea.

“Control yourself, Martín,” Andrés says. It’s the first words he’s said all day. At the sound of his name, Martín sits bolt upright as if electrocuted. “No more of your childish talk. All of us here know that you aren’t going to kill us, so can you please quiet down and have a tostada?”

Martín’s jaw is working furiously, like he’s chewing on the words he wants to say. “I’m going back to Italy, then,” he grates out.

“Okay,” Andrés says, and turns back to his work. “Do that.”

Martín doesn’t move. 

For a long moment, no one speaks. Andrés sips his tea, Martín glares, and Sergio holds his breath.

“So the Royal Mint, is that it?” Martín finally asks Sergio.

“Ah, for fuck’s sake,” Andrés mutters, getting up from the table and sweeping the files up. “I’m going to go figure out how to send a message to my wife. Enjoy your little talk.” He retreats upstairs. 

Sergio clears his throat. “The Mint, yes,” he says. He glances at Martín and wishes he hadn’t; he’s never seen someone look so forlorn, so desperately lost. “It was my father’s plan.”

“It’s bullshit,” Martín says instantly. “There’s nothing elegant about printing money. Governments do it all the time, and all it does is cause inflation.”

For the first time since yesterday evening, Sergio feels himself relax incrementally. Martín is furious, but he’s also setting forth an intellectual argument, which has always been how he wrangles ideas into acceptance.

It’s taken twelve hours, but Plan Palermo is back on track.

“My dad’s first concern, yes.” Sergio rolls up his sleeves and leans forward. “The solution isn’t in the structure of the heist itself. No, it’s in how we go on to manage our funds after we’ve escaped.”

Martín frowns. “Tell me.”

Sergio, at last, allows himself a smile. “How about I show you?”

*

Martín is staring at him, euros fluttering from his hands. “How did you come by this?”

“My father was prepared,” is all Sergio says. “You think that it was the first time he’d done a job like this? The question now is getting it to scale.”

Martín sinks to his knees next to the duffel bag, running his fingers over stacks and stacks of money. He caresses the edge of a 200 euro bill almost tenderly, saying nothing.

Then, without warning, his expression clouds.

“Paper money,” Martín says hollowly. “That’s all it is.”

“We’ve built our society on it, Martín,” Sergio says. “ Our institutions. Our houses. Nothing is built on gold.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. Martín tears the note he’s handling in half.

“Nothing, huh?” Martín rips up another, and Sergio flinches. “You mean to tell me that ninety tons of gold is nothing?”

“Martín,” Sergio pleads, even as he tears into the next.

“All we care about now is money? Not art? Not poetry? Love?”

“Please,” Sergio whispers. 

“Let’s just get rid of it all, then, hm?” Martín spits out. 

As he reaches for the duffel bag again, Sergio grabs his wrist. They struggle for a moment, but Martín is weak, and Sergio knocks him onto the ground. The back of Martín’s head hits the wooden floor and he cries out. “Let’s burn the cathedrals and tear down the theaters, yes? No more music! No more passion! No more sex!”

“Martín,” Sergio says, and he kneels down to cradle his head. “Martín. I’m not him.”

Martín blinks. Tears are sticking to his lashes. He reaches up and Sergio jerks out of the way, but Martín only finds his cheek and strokes it, rubbing one thumb under Sergio’s jaw.

“I know,” Martín says, drawing in a shuddering breath. “I know.”

*

Sergio doesn’t relax for a week.

He knows, still, that he’s done the right thing. And yet, he can’t help feeling like he’s trapped himself in the lion’s den without so much of a stick to defend himself.

It’s an apt metaphor. Martín, restless, agonized, paces and growls and fights with shadows. Sergio had kept his gun, but Martín shows up to breakfast on the second day with another, and none of them acknowledges it. He whines and snuffles like a young predator yearning for the hunt, maddened by his wounds, incapable of processing anything other than raw emotion. It guides his hands; he claws at Sergio if he gets too close, shrinks away into the shadows whenever Andrés passes nearby.

Andrés, for his part, is chillingly unruffled. He yawns and preens, the alpha male, waiting for others to bring him their spoils. Nothing bothers him, not Sergio’s repeated attempts to bring them all into conversation, not any of Martín’s fits of passion.

Sergio had always hated biology.

Despite Martín’s constant bloodlust, he finds Andrés’ behavior particularly disturbing. Sergio’s own machinations had ensured that Andrés and Tatiana can no longer communicate, not without exposing the house’s location, which Sergio successfully gambled Andrés wouldn’t be willing to do. (This fact, when discovered, led to the only true smile Sergio had seen Martín produce since arriving.) Andrés can’t so much as leave the grounds without the risk of arrest, one which Sergio also knows he won’t incur. A predator values its freedom.

Amid these impositions, Sergio had expected his brother to become enraged, uncontrollable. He had set up a careful system of failsafes to protect his and Martín’s lives for this very eventuality.

But Andrés is acting unchanged. Normal, even. He gets up at the same time every morning, drinks his tea, studies papers upon papers. He makes insightful revisions to their plan.

Ominously, he ignores Martín.

Six nights after Martín’s arrival, Andrés and Sergio are sitting together at the dining table. Martín has holed himself up in one of the spare rooms to drink. There’s quiet, for now.

Then, suddenly: “Do you enjoy playing with fire, brother?”

Sergio frowns down at his files. “What do you mean? Subduing Alison Parker will hardly be the most difficult thing we do.”

“I don’t mean the plan,” Andrés says, and he’s smiling sweetly. “I mean our current situation.”

Sergio’s stomach drops. “You and Martín are stabilizing.”

“Stabilizing, hm?” Andrés’ grin widens. To Sergio, this has never been a good sign. “He stands outside of my bedroom door for close to an hour every night. Does that seem stable to you?”

“He hasn’t brought the gun with him in days,” Sergio points out.

Andrés snorts. “And this is a victory in your eyes? Tell me, how are we going to even begin to break into the Mint with him in this state?”

“He’ll come around,” Sergio insists. “Our plan has already intrigued him.”

“I’m not going to wager our survival, much less that of seven other robbers and sixty-seven hostages, on intrigue,” Andrés says mildly. “And if what you’re saying is false, then the plan is moot. Now he knows about it, all of it. We have no way of excommunicating him short of terminating him.”

Sergio’s hand twitches. “You don’t mean that.”

“I don’t,” Andrés agrees. “Because, even with all of what I just said, there’s still something worse happening.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s that I care about Martín, damnit,” Andrés says tiredly. “I love him. When I left him, I helped save the Bank of Spain plan, yes. But I also helped save him. I gave him an out, a way to finally find peace.”

Sergio is dumbstruck.

“And now,” Andrés says, rising, “you’ve deprived him of his only chance to be whole.”

Sergio looks up at him. “It’s not too late. You can help him.”

“Am I your janitor, Sergio?” Andrés asks. “Must I always be the one to clean up your messes? We need to survive the next few months, this heist. Martín must be brought to heel.”

Sergio’s mouth runs dry. “You still don’t trust him.”

“I trust him with my life,” Andrés retorts coldly. “In case you’ve forgotten, my best friend was a genius. Full of love and joy. On his best days, he could outshine the sun itself. You’ve turned him into a shell of himself.”

“ _Me_?” Sergio says, sputtering. “Excuse me? Were you not the one who said that Martín needed to be broken-”

“Something broken can be mended,” Andrés cuts him off. “It’s harder to restore something that’s been whittled to nothing.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

Andrés has gathered up his books, the floorplan of the Royal Mint. He doesn’t respond for a long while. “I miss my best friend,” he says finally. “Whoever Martín is now, he’s not the man I knew and loved.”

He turns to go.

Sergio doesn’t want to ask, but the words are forced out of him anyway. “What are you going to do?”

Andrés looks over his shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Why, I’m going to do what you always do. Make the most out of what I have.”


	5. Chapter 5

Love is a difficult beast, Andrés decides.

Fortunately, a beast is just that - something dumb and mute, and above all, something that can be tamed. If Martín is manageable, then love should be even easier, given that love is something inside of himself. And anything internal can be subdued.

A week after Martín’s arrival, Andrés makes the switch. He takes one last look at his emotions, his passions, that which nearly doomed them the first time, and bids them goodbye. 

For the first time in seven days, he doesn’t come downstairs with a gun tucked into his belt.

Martín had exhausted their alcohol supplies within the first week; newly sober, he’s generally awake before either of the others now. Andrés sits at the table across from him and allows himself one final look at his best friend’s face, the lines and shadows and contours of which he knows better than anyone else’s.

Then he shuts that off within himself, too.

“Martín,” Andrés says calmly. Martín looks up, incredulous. “May I have some coffee?”

It’s the first time he’s broken the silence between them since he’d stormed out on breakfast a week ago. For the past few days, Sergio had been running between the two of them, desperately trying to tie frayed threads together and accomplishing remarkably little.

Before this morning, the expression Martín is wearing now - one of hope and pain in equal measure, spelled out openly for him to read - would have eaten away something within Andrés. Now, he holds out his mug with a steady hand and lets Martín pour him the drink.

“Thank you.” He turns to his notebook.

Sergio comes downstairs moments later and takes his customary spot between the two of them. “Good morning,” he ventures awkwardly.

For someone planning the biggest heist in Spanish history, Sergio will forever be the timid, sickly boy from Andrés’ youth.

“Good morning,” Andrés says. “Martín, why don’t you pour Sergio some coffee as well?”

Martín and Sergio exchange a meaningful glance that Andrés ignores.

“I’m glad to see the two of you are - ah, awake. I need both of your eyes. Today, we finalize the exit strategy. I’m depending on your skill set, Martín.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Martín says evenly, spreading butter on a pastry.

Sergio purses his lips and looks down. Andrés hides a smile behind the floorplan. Without another word, Sergio rises and marches over to the front door.

“There,” he says, opening it. “You’re free to leave whenever. I was hoping you’d be of help, but if need be, I can hire another engineer.”

“A dime a dozen,” Andrés agrees, and almost misses the grateful slump of Sergio’s shoulders. “You remember that pretty young thing I consulted, back in Strasbourg?”

“You’ll find her name and number in those papers near the tea infuser, Martín. Page eleven,” Sergio says.

The bait is far too easy, but Martín has never been one to resist the call away from his better nature. Particularly not recently. He finds the offending piece of paper and brings it to the fireplace, where a flame flickers to life a moment later.

“Thank you, Martín,” Sergio says. “It was getting a bit drafty.”

“No drilling,” Martín says, poking at the fire for another few seconds before turning back to them. “They’ll have seismographs. Attracts far too much attention. This is work that we need to do well ahead of time.”

Sergio, for the first time since Andrés’ wedding, is smiling openly. “Shall we take this to the classroom?”

*

Martín may be hurting, but at the end of the day, he’s still an engineer. When faced with a problem, he has no choice but to solve it.

It’s a tenacity that Andrés, newly disconnected from the part of him that was capable of joy and pain, allows himself to admire. Martín is drawing diagrams and equations on the chalkboard, concentration furrowing lines on his forehead, absently rubbing chalk on his jawline. He’s beautiful. He’s truly, objectively beautiful.

Andrés watches for a moment - how the muscles of Martín’s shoulders shift underneath soft linen fabric, his fingers dancing across the chalkboard - and lightly pulls his concentration back to the task at hand.

He doesn’t see Sergio observing him from the back of the classroom, frowning.

The day goes on, and yet the three of them stay where they are long past lunchtime, until Sergio leaves briefly to return with a platter of sandwiches. Even with hands occupied, they continue to trade their thoughts, taking turns at the chalkboard while the other two eat.

And gradually, Andrés witnesses the tenuous return of a brilliant, unbreakable synergy between the three of them, one that they had not experienced since before Sergio’s intervention in his and Martín’s relationship. He’s relieved, and knows that Sergio and Martín must feel the same, if not much more so. In fact, he can read it in Martín’s posture, the way he holds himself less stiffly. It’s to their advantage that Martín no longer be defensive, coiled to attack. But still, his pathological openness is something to be remedied before any of them sets foot anywhere near the Mint.

The sun sets, and all three of them are in higher spirits than Andrés could have dared hope for. When Sergio breaks them off for the day and starts for the kitchen, Martín puts a hand on his chest. “Let me.”

He leaves; a moment later, they hear gentle footfalls on the stairs. Andrés and Sergio meet each other’s eyes.

“Poisoning our food, do you think?” Andrés asks.

He means it as a joke, but Sergio mulls over the question in any case. “Not today,” he says finally. “I don’t think that Martín’s exhausted his attempts to hurt us. In fact, I don’t think he’s started yet, since he’ll have to finish hurting himself first. But that time will come.”

A momentary chill passes down Andrés’ spine; he ignores it. “We did good work today. But we aren’t anywhere close to being able to bring in the others, or do any recon trips. We’re a hair’s breadth away from tearing each other apart in here.”

“Can I ask you something?” 

Andrés spreads his hands.

“How can you stand it?”

Andrés blinks; it wasn’t a question he had been expecting. “Stand what?” he asks, though he suspects Sergio’s response already.

“Being in such close proximity. You thought you were saying goodbye, potentially forever, only a few months ago. Does the normalcy of it all scare you?”

The Andrés of last week would have taken offense to the audacity of Sergio’s probing - these accusations from a man who had broken them apart only to force them back together. Heat crawls under his skin in anticipation of a fight.

The Andrés of now pushes it back down. “One adapts.”

“You aren’t - you know. Hurting?”

“We have a job to do,” Andrés says, measured. “Nobody is worth that sacrifice. Least of all him.”

Sergio falls silent. For an absurd moment, Andrés is jealous of his brother: here’s someone who has never had to know the awful pain of denying love. Like cutting off a hand so it can no longer write poetry. And to think, merely months ago he had pitied Sergio for that same inability to feel.

“I’m going to go help with dinner,” Sergio says at last.

After he leaves, Andrés stares at the chalkboard for a long while, eyes unfocused, seeing nothing.

*

It’s not a victory, their planning together. Managing to eat dinner without murdering one another. Martín handing Andrés a bottle of seltzer and saying “you’re welcome.” He doesn’t allow himself to count them as wins.

After all, there’s one more battle to be fought.

Andrés takes his time brushing his teeth, putting on pajamas, turning down the sheets. He reads newspapers from months ago, before Sergio had halted any deliveries. He runs his fingers over his paintbrushes before sighing and turning off the lamp. 

Crawling into bed, he listens. Martín’s footsteps sound only a moment later.

Andrés quietly slips out of bed and toward the door. He considers his pistol, then refocuses and leaves it where it is. He opens the door.

Martín startles. For a moment, the two of them stare at one another, silent.

“Well,” Andrés says. “Come in, then.”

Martín doesn’t move. With a sigh, Andrés throws the door open wider and lies down in his bed again, flicking on the bedside lamp.

“Or stay there,” he says. “Fine by me. I’d like to get to sleep.”

Martín’s nostrils flare, but after a moment, he comes in and closes the door behind him. He’s wearing only a wife beater and pajama pants, looking small, lost.

“That’s better. Now, what did you want to tell me so urgently it couldn’t wait until morning?”

“You had called me,” Martín blurts. He seems to regret the words the moment they leave his mouth; his brows knit together. “That’s why I’m here.”

“You’re going to have to elaborate,” Andrés says. He picks the newspaper off of his table and puts on his reading glasses. “I’m afraid I’m getting old and dimwitted.”

“Don’t play with me,” Martín warns. “I’m talking about the week before I arrived. I received a voicemail from you, telling me to come at once and plan with you. Followed by encrypted messages - this address, how to cross borders unnoticed, everything. From you.”

The missing piece of information slides into place. Andrés, not for the first time, has to marvel at the intricacies of his brother’s preparation. “And did we - ‘we’ - ever actually speak on the phone? Have a live conversation?”

Andrés can see the realization the moment it hits Martín. His shoulders sag; his jaw drops open slightly.

“Surely you must have known Sergio’s involvement the moment you arrived?” Andrés asks. “I assumed that that fueled some of your anger.”

Martín is shaking his head. “I knew something had - gone wrong. But still, I thought-” he breaks off. “It was your voice.”

“As I’ve told you,” Andrés says, and turns back to his reading, “it’s best for us to be apart.”

“But here we are,” Martín whispers.

Andrés inhales. This next bit is purely his invention, Sergio’s help unwarranted. “I stand by what I said. You like me far too much.”

“Right now, I don’t like you at all,” Martín says. He swallows. “I’ve stayed for this plan. You and Sergio would die without me, and you know it.”

“A possibility,” Andrés says, shrugging. “Actually, when it comes to life, it’s more than a possibility. It’s a promise.”

“I’m going to make sure I save you,” Martín goes on, ignoring him, “take my piece of the money, and go into hiding. You won’t ever see or hear from me again, don’t you worry.”

Andrés isn’t sure what it means, this tugging in his chest. After all, Martín has started playing along, and Andrés has put up his walls.

And then, out of nowhere: “I miss you.”

Andrés looks at him sharply. Martín is swaying on his feet, clutching his bare arms. His eyes are fixed on some spot above Andrés’ head.

“Why would you say that,” Andrés demands.

Martín shrugs; it seems to cost him a great effort. “Because it’s true. We used to build cathedrals together. We used to take on the world, you and I.”

Andrés doesn’t answer. A cold fury is rising within him, one that he can’t suffocate.

“I’m sorry that Sergio told you anything about my feelings,” Martín says. “I’m sorry I kissed you. I would never have traded it for what we had. I’d have preferred to live a lifetime by your side, never touching you again, attending every single one of your weddings, if it meant regaining the chance to speak with you as equals.”

Andrés stands. Martín’s gaze follows him, but he stays rooted to the spot.

“I hope that no matter what happens, we can be friends again.” Martín’s eyes are completely dry, his voice steady. “I know that man is in there somewhere.”

“Get out,” Andrés hisses.

Martín bows his head. “I’ve said my piece. I won’t bother you again. We’ll speak tomorrow.”

Andrés advances on him, and Martín retreats out of the room. Andrés is about to slam the door when Martín stops abruptly.

“Thank you,” Martín says, and Andrés is left speechless as Martín vanishes down the hall.


	6. Chapter 6

The change in Martín is overnight.

Andrés comes downstairs the next day in anticipation of a massacre, not sure if he’ll find both Sergio and Martín still standing. As it so happens, both are in the kitchen, shoulder-to-shoulder with their backs to him as they peel potatoes. Sergio says something too low for Andrés to hear, and Martín throws his head back and laughs.

Andrés clears his throat.

“Good morning,” Sergio says, turning. Martín turns a little bit more slowly. His eyes meet Andrés’ and he raises his chin, defiant.

This will need to be taken care of.

“We have a surprise for you,” Sergio continues. “Show him, Martín.”

With a flourish, Martín pulls a red ribbon out of his pocket and puts it on the table.

“Ta-da,” Sergio says.

Andrés lifts an eyebrow. “Neat magic trick. For your next one, could you also get me some tea?”

“It’s not a trick,” Martín says, and he slides into the chair next to Andrés’, too close and too loud. “This is in place of an actual ribbon-cutting ceremony. We’ve broken ground outside of the Mint.”

Even with everything else on his mind, Andrés can’t help the uptick in his pulse. “So the countdown's begun.”

“Exactly,” Sergio says, smiling. “Our calendar has been firmed up. We have dates for our time in preparations, the exact moment we’ll enter the Mint. Everything. Martín has helped us calculate exactly how much time we’ll need in the Mint to dig out from the inside.”

Andrés looks between his brother and Martín, both of whom seem alert but at ease. He permits himself a morsel of respect: despite Sergio’s many flaws, one of his most potent strengths is the ability to get things done when they need to be done. His is a mind that can move mountains, when it wants to.

As for Martín - well. Martín knows when to follow orders.

They finish breakfast and retreat into the classroom, where Sergio and Martín build upon each other’s excitement, squabbling good-naturedly over when and how to onboard the others, whether it’s possible to increase the speed of the printing press for seventy-two hours without it overheating.

Andrés observes from his corner of the room, frowning slightly. Sergio’s stance has relaxed with Martín’s newfound enthusiasm; he stands openly and easily now, leaning toward both of them. His body language is full of gestures toward his chest, beckoning with his palms up. Signals of trust, openness.

Sergio may be the brightest person Andrés has ever met. But in matters of the heart, he’s a hopeless moron.

“Okay, we need to focus,” Sergio says, nearly giggling, drunk on his own success. “Our team on the inside is clear. Who will we want on the outside tunneling toward us? How many will we need?”

“Oh, _Profesor_ ,” Martín says in mock earnestness. “Pick me. I know the answer.”

“ _Profesor_ , hm?” Sergio practically beams. “I like the sound of that.”

*

Sergio seems to think that, in this twisted scheme weaving the three of them together, he’s come out on top. For the time being, Andrés indulges his little fantasies. After all, it’s a nice change of pace not to see Sergio pouting around the house, wracked by guilt over his interference in Andrés’ and Martín’s relationship.

The direct result of this is that Sergio starts leaving the house for small stretches at a time. The only one of them without an arrest warrant - in fact, the only one whose face and identity are known neither to the Spanish police nor Interpol - Sergio takes point on their reconnaissance trips, gathering supplies. He arrives one day in a shockingly ugly red car.

“If you’re trying not to arouse suspicion, you’ve failed completely, my brother,” Martín greets him in the driveway. Andrés looks on from his spot at the table. “That thing makes you look like a pedophile.”

“We’re going to scrap it soon, no worries,” Sergio says, flustered. He scrambles awkwardly out of the driver’s seat and drops half of his files in the process.

Andrés rolls his eyes.

Martín, whether intentionally or not, is doing everything he can to perpetuate Sergio’s idealism. After their talk, Martín has done his best to become agreeable, helpful. He is a font of knowledge, filling in the little gaps that Sergio and Andrés would have otherwise overlooked. In a word, he makes himself indispensable.

One of the times that Sergio is gone, a memory rises to Andrés’ mind, unbidden. He remembers Martín sitting by his side in the monastery courtyard, much the way he is now at their outdoor table. Only then, he’d lifted his head when the Gregorian chants started, and after a moment, had sung the tune back. A clear, lucid melody like a warbler’s. Pleasantly surprised, Andrés caught his eye, and Martín winked at him.

The only noise now is a few lone sparrows and the scritch of their pencils on paper.

These recollections are coming to him less and less as he becomes practiced in repressing them, with the slightly bothersome side effect that Martín makes almost nightly appearances in his dreams. Though Martín hasn’t revisited Andrés’ door since their talk, he does not need an invite into Andrés’ subconscious, which is as innovative as ever in showing him Martín in different preparations. He sees Martín of his past, the scrappy youth who had stumbled across Andrés’ path fresh off the streets of Buenos Aires; sees Martín of now, haunting every corner of the house and rubbing his fingerprints all over their plan; he sees Martín as never experienced in his reality, lying on his back naked and flushed, rivulets of sweat making their way down his collarbone.

It’s annoying as hell. 

But Andrés doesn’t have the time to deal with these matters, private and forgettable as they are, given the bigger issue: that, despite Sergio’s feelings to the contrary, Martín is not himself.

He passes admirably, of course. He still laughs too loud and drinks too much and flirts with anything that moves, which, given their state of isolation, is limited to Andrés and Sergio in equal measure. He buzzes about with boundless energy, quieting only when, like the other two, he’s busy with a particularly stubborn problem to puzzle over. Andrés makes sure to drop him these like bones for a dog, which as an added bonus speeds up their planning process.

In his dreams, Martín says, “you’re going to go and make photocopies in the Royal Mint.” In his dreams, he and Martín laugh at Sergio’s earnest attempts to win them to his cause. “Have you ever heard of a heist so soulless,” dream-Martín ridicules, to which dream-Andrés answers, “it’s the least sexy thing I’ve ever imagined.” 

Memories, both.

But Andrés knows better; he seems to be the only one who does, unless Martín is engaging in his deceptions willfully. He feels as if he’s in an alternate reality where everything is the same, only shifted two inches to the left: it’s all recognizable, and all profoundly wrong.

He waits for one of the rare occasions when he can get Sergio alone. His brother tends to be tied up with Martín these days, the two of them enamored by each other’s ideas. The way Martín used to be by Andrés’. But now, Martín has stayed back in the classroom, pulling together the elements of how to break criminals out of Serbian prison and Spanish house arrest. Sergio is in his room, watching stolen security camera footage and folding little red pieces of paper.

“Andrés,” he says when he hears his brother knock. “Come in.”

Andrés does.

“What’s on your mind?”

“Martín continues to be a problem,” Andrés says bluntly. 

Sergio looks up at him. His fingers pause for a second, then resume. “What makes you say that?”

“Because I know him,” Andrés says. “I know that he’s not gone back to normal. If anything, he’s buried whatever was on the surface down deep, and it’s going to well up when we least want it to.”

Sergio is frowning. He folds even faster. “He looks fine. He’s been fine for weeks now. No temper tantrums, no binge drinking. And he doesn’t give you those long, sad looks anymore, either.”

“Like I said, I know him.”

“You two have both told me - separately - that you _were_ best friends,” Sergio says, looking down at the rose taking shape in his hands. “It’s been nearly half a year since Florence.”

His comment, so offhanded and conversational, pierces through Andrés’ exterior sharp as a needle. He says nothing.

“We’re all learning to trust each other again,” Sergio goes on. Andrés smooths out his expression, puts the walls back up. “Maybe that part is imperfect, but I do know he is truly hooked on our plan. He won’t betray it. He’s invested, Andrés.”

“You are the one who’s invested,” Andrés accuses, and Sergio scowls up at him. “So much so that you fail to take into account the blind spots. Just as you had told us about the Bank of Spain.”

“No, please,” Sergio says drily. “Tell me my blind spots.”

Andrés spreads his palms. “For one, you have too much faith in strangers. Not just Oliveira and Ramos and the others, but Martín himself, because if he isn’t a stranger to you right now, you aren’t thinking clearly enough. For another, you still do not have a good way to control the hostages. Third, your intentions of meddling with the police’s negotiators are borderline suicide. But none of that is as inexcusable as your complete lack of understanding about love.”

“Love,” Sergio says. “Of course.”

Andrés stalks over to the nightstand and throws open the journal Sergio keeps on him nearly at all times. “Look,” he says angrily, pointing to the first page. “No personal relationships. It’s your first rule. And why?”

Sergio stares at him mutinously. A muscle twitches in his jaw.

“It’s not a rhetorical question, Sergio.”

“Because emotional involvement compromises the entire structural integrity of the plan,” Sergio mutters.

“Exactly. And you mean to tell me that there is no ‘emotional involvement’ here? From anyone?”

“I can detach,” Sergio says. “You’ve insisted to me you can, too.”

“Of course I can. I’m talking about the person in this house who has been in love with me for seven years. You think that sort of thing dries up in an instant?”

“It takes a long time to build something,” Sergio says quietly. He takes his rose and tugs on two ends of the paper. It unfolds without resistance. “Destruction is easy.”

Whatever retort Andrés had been about to make turns to dust in his mouth. “You think falling out of love doesn’t leave scars of its own? You’re delusional.”

Sergio blinks rapidly. “I’m not,” he says, voice barely above a whisper. “But heartbreak is a powerful motivator.”

There's a pause. “I see,” Andrés says, exhaling. “I see. You think you’ve won Martín to your side.”

“It’s not a matter of sides,” Sergio says, angry. He starts refolding the paper, which, with its many creases, refuses to cooperate. “We are a team, and we’re all striving for the same mission. We don’t need love, but we do need trust.”

Andrés snorts. “It’s much like you to think that those are two separate things.”

Sergio ignores him. “I have reasons to trust Martín, now. I trust you. He trusts us both. Are you on board?”

“Am I on board?” Andrés repeats incredulously. He plucks the rose from Sergio’s hands and crumples it in his fist. “Sergio, wake up from this fantasy you’ve been lost in. The plan is fine; it can work. But only if you stop lying to yourself.”

“Tell me one good reason I shouldn’t trust Martín. That any of what you’re saying is true.”

Andrés leans over and drops the paper in the trash, where it joins a small pile of its red companions. “I don’t have to,” he says, walking out. “I’ll show you.”

*

Andrés gets his opportunity the very next day.

It starts off normally enough, with the three of them trading barbs and jokes and food at the table in the morning. Andrés smiles at Sergio as though their conversation last night hadn’t taken place. He makes a show of listening to Martín with extra concentration.

Sergio, the consummate optimist, relaxes.

In the afternoon, Sergio leaves again, as he’s been doing more and more often now to set up the space he’ll use to communicate during the robbery. They had agreed that it should be close to the Mint itself, for ease of access, and that neither Andrés nor Martín should know anything about it, in the grim scenario that they’re captured and interrogated. These are trips Sergio undertakes on his own.

Andrés and Martín spend the afternoon in the classroom, quiet and relatively peaceful. Martín has most recently been caught up in the question of how to transport their money from the press through the exit, when the time comes. Andrés and Sergio had told him of the necessity of manual labor, a point Martín refused to concede. For a criminal, he’s undeniably loath to get his hands dirty.

Andrés constructs sketches of the interior of the Mint, partially to help him envision the many unforeseen challenges awaiting inside, and partially to clear his mind. After a while, he turns the page and begins to sketch Martín instead.

It takes the better part of an hour, but Martín finally notices what Andrés is doing, and stops his scribbling on the chalkboard. He lowers his hand. “Need me to pose naked?”

“That won’t be necessary,” Andrés says lightly. He draws the curve of Martín’s shoulder.

“I charge by the hour, you know.”

Andrés laughs easily. “Please. Don’t let me interrupt.”

“Shall we not wrap up for the day?”

Andrés puts the pencil down and stands. “Actually, I wanted you to show me what you’ve been up to.” With both hands in his pockets, he takes a few steps toward Martín.

Martín backs up. “I’ve told you. Looking for a way to mechanize the money’s exit from the tunnel.”

“Mm. Fascinating,” Andrés says, and approaches further. The distance between the two of them is now but the length of a piece of chalk.

Martín swallows. Andrés traces the bob of his Adam’s apple with his eyes. “Could be as simple as a pulley. One of mankind’s oldest machines, but among, ah, the most elegant. Would cut our exit time. Uh. In half.”

“Very clever,” Andrés says approvingly. “I’m sure billions of euros weigh a lot. No sense trying to pass that kind of money from hand to hand.”

“No - no sense,” Martín agrees. He shuffles back, eyes darting around the room, and abruptly he’s cornered.

Andrés takes his hands out of his pockets and circles Martín’s wrist, pinning them against the wall. The chalk tumbles to the floor.

“Good work, Martín,” Andrés murmurs, nosing the shell of Martín’s ear.

“What,” Martín says, “what are you doing.”

Andrés pulls back, looking at Martín through hooded eyes. Their noses brush. 

With a quiet gasp, Martín leans forward. Andrés dodges, and leans his cheek against Martín’s, pressing him up against the wall. “I’m testing your self-control, of course,” he whispers.

In his arms, Martín tenses immediately.

“Resist,” Andrés says. He captures Martín’s earlobe between his teeth and tugs on it. 

Martín groans. He doesn’t attempt to free himself.

“A true heist is not about greed. It’s about restraint.” Andrés pushes one of his thighs between Martín’s legs.

Martín is panting softly. He rocks forward, rubbing himself against Andrés’ leg. 

“You must learn control,” Andrés whispers. His heart is beating fast; he ignores it in favor of shoving Martín against the wall more firmly. “If you could have everything you wanted, would you have the ability to say no?”

Martín grinds against his hip. His eyes are closed; his breathing is making ragged puffs against Andrés’ ear. He’s hard.

“More importantly: would you want to?”

Andrés doesn’t allow himself to look at Martín’s face. Instead, he noses at his jaw, bites at the soft skin above where his pulse is jumping in his throat.

“Andrés,” Martín says. He sighs; the sound is reverent. “Andrés.”

“I’m here,” Andrés says without thinking, and freezes.

Suddenly, Martín’s hand is in his hair, and one on his lower back. He has no recollection of dropping Martín’s wrists. Martín’s leg is pushing back where Andrés hard, aching.

Andrés jumps backward as if stung.

Martín opens his eyes. His lips are wet, slightly parted. He’s still touching Andrés’ waist.

They stare at one another.

“You see,” Andrés says jerkily. “You aren’t in control at all.”

“Andrés-” Martín starts, but Andrés turns and stalks out of the classroom. He doesn’t need to look back to know the expression on Martín’s face. He's seen it before.


	7. Chapter 7

“Have you seen Martín?” is the first thing Sergio says when he comes back the next afternoon.

Andrés has not. Immediately following the events of yesterday evening, Andrés had locked himself in his bedroom and sat motionless at his desk, strong-arming the beating of his heart into submission until he felt calm enough to go to bed. He had half expected Martín to storm to his room, to demand to be let in, but there was only an eerie silence until Sergio knocked just now.

“I’m afraid you’re likely to find our brilliant engineer indisposed,” Andrés says through clenched teeth.

He and Sergio size each other up.

“What did you do,” Sergio asks flatly.

Andrés opens his mouth. Suddenly, there’s a distant yell from somewhere outside of the house.

Sergio thrusts his finger into Andrés’ face. “What did you do!”

The yelling goes on. They fly downstairs and to the front door. With a final, despairing look at Andrés, Sergio throws open the door.

Martín is on their doorstep, fingers wrapped loosely around an empty bottle of champagne. He’s wearing jeans and nothing else. His bare shoulders are dusted with glitter.

“My friends,” Martín slurs, breaking into the beatific smile of the absolutely trashed. “How glad I ‘m you’ve come.”

“Fuck,” Sergio says. He grabs Martín by the bicep and yanks him inside, slamming the door shut. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

“Oh, Martín,” Andrés says with a _tsk_ , even as he avoids meeting Martín’s unsteady gaze. “How you’ve made a fool out of yourself.”

“Me?” Martín laughs and hiccups. The bottle falls from his hand. “You sh’d’ve seen me. I was beautiful.”

“Where did you go?” Sergio says, gripping Martín hard by the collarbone. His voice is whispered, but given how pale his face has gone, the fire springing up in his eyes, he might as well have shouted.

“Where din’t I go,” Martín says with a dopey smile. “Went out. To Madrid. Hadda stretch my wings and fly, hm?”

“Son of a bitch,” Andrés hisses.

Sergio is hanging on to both of Martín’s shoulders now, shaking him. Andrés can’t help the thought of the glitter that must be embedding itself into Sergio’s palms and fights down a hysterical laugh. “What did you do? Who saw you? How much did you drink?”

Martín laughs and laughs.

“Answer me!” Sergio demands.

“Had to party,” Martín says, and belches. “Drank what they gave me. Took what they gave me.”

Sergio drops his hands. “Took what?”

Martín shrugs, sways. “Pills. Some cocaine. Not sure.”

There’s a long, terrible silence. 

“My friend,” Andrés says finally. “You’ve fucked up.”

Sergio whirls on him. “Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare.”

“What?”

Sergio’s nostrils are flaring. “I know you had something to do with this.”

“Come to bed, Andrés, my love,” Martín murmurs, right on cue. Warm, naked arms drape around his back.

“Get off me,” Andrés says, tearing himself away.

“Do you have _any idea_ ,” Sergio says. “Any idea the danger you’ve put us in?”

Martín blinks, unfocused.

“There are _warrants out for your arrest_!” Sergio explodes. He lunges at Martín; Andrés blocks him just in time. “What if you were seen? What if you leaked anything to the people you saw tonight? What if the police have followed you here?”

Andrés steals a glance outside, but all is quiet in their front yard.

“Do you think of nothing but yourself-”

“Oh, like _you’re_ such a saint,” Martín snarls, the most coherent sentence he’s put together since coming home.

“I have never done anything to put either of you at risk-”

“You trapped me in here with him!”

And there it is. Andrés feigns surprise and indignance.

Sergio’s chest is heaving and his glasses are askew. “Okay,” he says finally. “Okay. Andrés, I’m going to go clean him up and restrain him. Then I’m going to do damage control.”

“Restrain me-” Martín begins, but Sergio silences him with one deadly flash of his eyes.

“And you,” Sergio turns on Andrés, who takes a defensive step back. Sergio’s head droops. “I want you out of my sight,” he says quietly. “Stay out of my way. But for fuck’s sake, don’t leave the house unless I tell you to.”

“I’ve done nothing,” Andrés protests. 

Sergio inhales deeply. “How I wish that were true. Martín, upstairs, now.”

They disappear, Martín stumbling on the stairs on his way up. Andrés strains his ears, but hears nothing further from the two of them. He drops onto the couch.

It’s hours before Sergio reemerges, during which time Andrés paces, starts a fire in the fireplace, and eventually nibbles on stale cheese from the fridge. He jumps up when he hears Sergio enter.

“How is he?” 

“I really don’t give a fuck,” Sergio says. He sinks into a chair at the table and massages his temples. 

Andrés stays quiet.

“You know,” Sergio says. He stops, sighs. “I had really hoped that bringing you back together, being a team again, would help you both recover.”

“No heist has ever succeeded built on hope alone,” Andrés says. “You taught me that.”

Sergio grimaces. “And what would you like to do now?”

Andrés looks at his brother. Among Sergio’s many moods, Andrés has rarely seen him this weary, this defeated.

“Honestly, I’d like to get this job done,” Andrés says softly.

Sergio exhales.

“And I’d like to see Martín.”

“You should go,” Sergio murmurs. “I’ve restrained him in his room.”

Andrés starts for the stairs.

“Brother,” Sergio calls out. Andrés stops. “Please don’t make things worse.”

*

As it turns out, Sergio has a very specific definition of the word “restrained.”

“My god,” Andrés says. 

Martín has showered and is wearing a shirt again, though he sports a five o’clock shadow, and there are bags under his eyes. He’s sitting upright on the floor, wrists handcuffed behind his back around the metal heating pipe in the corner.

Martín’s head snaps up when Andrés comes in. He watches Andrés on his approach, but his eyes don’t reflect any fear. Just sadness and a terrible, profound exhaustion.

“So you’ve heard?” Martín says. “Your brother has told me I am no longer welcome in this heist.”

Andrés’ stomach drops. “This is his idea of a punishment? Jesus Christ.”

“Imprisonment, I think,” Martín says, and his lips quirk up. “Grotesque, no? This pipe could heat up to 109 degrees Celsius, hot enough for second-degree burns. It’s barbaric, even for Sergio. He’s lucky it’s such a warm day.”

They look at each other. “I don’t have the keys,” Andrés says.

“I don’t want the keys,” Martín says quietly. “I just want some water.”

Andrés nods and disappears quietly down the hall. He returns with a plastic bottle, which he tips into Martín’s mouth.

Martín drinks; when he’s had enough, he shakes his head, and the stream of water spills across his face and drips down his chest. With the edge of his sleeve, Andrés wipes his face clean, then takes a seat next to him on the floor.

Martín’s eyes flutter closed. “I never asked for this,” he says in a low voice. “I don’t know how I ended up here.”

“For what it’s worth,” Andrés says, “I don’t know how I came to be here, either. We were meant to be melting gold.”

Martín opens his eyes.

Andrés offers him a faint smile. “We would have made terrible parents, you know. But that plan was our baby.”

“The only child I could tolerate,” Martín says, and smiles back weakly.

There’s silence for a while, punctuated only by Andrés tipping more water into Martín’s mouth.

“I know I’m a bad person,” Martín begins, apropos of nothing. Andrés glances at him. “I know I’ve done terrible things and deserve whatever’s come to me. I’m sure I’m being punished for the sins of a past life. So - is it awful that a part of me doesn’t understand why this is happening to me?” He attempts to raise his arms. A tear drops into his lap. “I’m a simple man. All I ever really wanted was two things. To break into the Bank of Spain. And you.”

He meets Andrés’ eyes. Between the two of them, there’s nothing left to say.

Andrés leans over and kisses him.

Martín makes a small, broken noise, and then he’s kissing back. The handcuffs clink uselessly against the pipe as he strains forward, trying to get closer to Andrés, to touch. Andrés rests one hand against Martín’s cheek, the other on his hip. Lets Martín lick into his mouth, lets their tongues slide together in a beautiful, synchronized dance. Just like the rest of them.

Martín breaks them apart. He breathes hard and rests his forehead against Andrés’. “Do you mean it?” he whispers. “This time. You aren’t playing games?”

Andrés looks down at his hands, which have come to rest against either side of Martín’s ribcage. The correct answer - the one he wants more than anything to give - dies in his throat. 

Finally, Andrés says, “It isn’t logical for you to want me.”

Martín leans in. Andrés can feel him smile against his lips. “It’s far, far too late for that.”

“I am old.”

“So I’ll grow old with you.” Martín pulls back an inch, looks Andrés in the eyes. “One day, you’ll be ancient and shriveled and fucking ugly, no longer able to just fly off on one of your crazy adventures. And who will read you the newspaper and change your diaper then, huh? I will.”

Andrés’ breath hitches with the knowledge that that day will never come. “You know I’m dying.”

“Then I’ll die with you, I don’t care,” Martín says. “I have no expectation of making it past forty, I never did.”

Andrés groans. “You’re a fool. A romantic.”

“Call me whatever you want. All I care about is that a life without you is one I’m not interested in living.” Martín finds his jaw, the shell of his ear, and presses his teeth against them.

“Did I teach you these pretty speeches? Hm?”

“You must know that everything I’ve learned is because of you,” Martín says, but Andrés kisses him again and the words are lost.

It’s a long time before they untangle. Martín is straining against his handcuffs, trying and trying to get closer to Andrés. “You’re going to hurt yourself,” Andrés says. His fingers rub circles against the nape of Martín’s neck, playing with the soft hair there.

Martín shrugs laboriously. “So be it.”

Andrés leans back against the wall by Martín’s side, and Martín drops his head to rest on Andrés’ shoulder.

They stay that way until the morning.

*

The creak of the door wakes Andrés up.

He blinks up at Sergio, who’s hovering in the doorway. His muscles are screaming in protest of his unnatural resting position. 

Sergio tiptoes in quietly, but even so, he wakes Martín, who lifts his head off of Andrés’ shoulder with a sudden jerk. 

For a moment, the three of them say nothing.

It’s Sergio who breaks the silence. “Please come eat,” he says, not looking at them. Andrés nearly laughs; he’s never seen Sergio so pained, so contrite. “You’ll need your energy. I’ve received word that the police have located Ms. Oliveira’s mother. They intend to use her.”

Andrés and Martín sit up straighter.

“And?” Andrés prompts.

Sergio reaches between the two of them and fiddles with something. A moment later, Martín’s hands spring free from behind the pipe, and he stretches his shoulders with a cry of pain and relief.

“And it means we’ve got to start now. We’ve got to collect the others ahead of schedule.”

They stand. Martín stumbles forward and Andrés reaches out, holds him firmly to his side.

Sergio takes a breath. “I have to know if you’re in.”

“We’re with you, brother,” Andrés says simply.

“‘Til the damn end,” Martín says.

Sergio’s head jerks up, and he meets their eyes. Finally, finally, he nods.

“Okay,” Sergio says, exhaling slowly. “Good. You know the rules. From this day on, we erase our identities. Our connections. Our relationships. Nothing else matters.”

He watches them; Andrés and Martín gaze back steadily.

“Alright, gentlemen. Then it’s time. Masks on.”


	8. Chapter 8

_Three months later_

Palermo tries Denver first. Naturally.

Late one night, after everyone else has gone to bed, he sneaks over to Denver’s room. Light is shining through the crack underneath his door. Palermo knocks.

Denver opens the door, smiles brightly when he sees who it is. A cigarette is dangling from his fingers. “Palermo. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve brought libations,” Palermo says, holding up a bottle and letting himself in.

Denver crows his excitement. “Oh, this is the good shit. Where’d you find this?”

“Called in a favor,” Palermo says, and winks. He sits down on Denver’s bed.

Denver follows. It’s something Palermo has come to love about him - in moments when he’s not flying off the handle, Denver is sweet and docile, rarely in the know but eager to please. He’s going to make an excellent foot soldier, once he can be taught to check that awful temper. Palermo is glad the Professor had okayed his joining the heist.

For more reasons than one. “Denver, I have a proposition.”

“Tell me.”

Palermo suppresses an eyeroll. “That was it. I’m propositioning you. For sex.”

Denver’s grin widens. “Really? Fucking awesome, dude,” he says, sincere. “But I actually really like women.”

Palermo snorts. “Now where have I heard that before.”

“It’s cool that you’re gay, though,” Denver says quickly. “One of my best friends was gay. Is. Well, she’s a woman now. So I guess she’s - straight?”

“What?”

“Nevermind,” Denver says, and bumps his shoulder. “You’re kinda hot, though. I totally would, if I were into dudes. You’d be my first choice. No-” he holds up an index and stops himself. “Rio. But you’d definitely be my second choice.”

“Being attracted to men is not a prerequisite for homosexual sex,” Palermo points out. “You just need the right circumstances.”

Denver frowns. “Uh, I’m pretty sure being attracted to men is the only prerequisite for being gay.” He laughs that stupid laugh, pleased with himself.

This time, Palermo indulges his eyeroll. “You know what? You’re so right. Let’s drink to that, hm, brother?”

“Salud,” Denver says, accepting the bottle from Palermo for the first swig.

*

Palermo, waking up the next morning with a pounding headache, idly turns his thoughts to Rio.

It’s out of the question the moment it enters his mind, though he does entertain the fantasy for a second. He wonders what it would be like to take Rio, to be the older man for once, to watch that pretty face crumble and break.

He wonders if it’s how Tokio feels every night.

The thought makes him laugh. When they leave the classroom for the day, he lets his hand linger on Rio’s back for a breath longer than strictly appropriate in homage of his little daydream.

“I’m going to buy a vineyard,” Berlín says at lunch. As per usual, he’s standing over them as they eat, a fussy vulture. “And bottle all of my own wines.”

“You can get wines at the supermarket,” Rio points out and they dissolve into laughter. Berlín spreads his hands.

“Me,” Palermo volunteers, “I’ll buy my own French chateau. And then fill it with a staff of beautiful, glistening, topless men to rub my feet and pour wine directly into my mouth.”

“Glistening,” Denver repeats with a guffaw.

“But men of what nationality, is what matters,” Tokio says.

Palermo winks at Berlín. “Spanish. Of course.” 

Berlín smiles vaguely and looks away.

Palermo opens his mouth to say more, but Berlín has already vanished. He frowns. From across the table, Helsinki is watching him.

Well, then. Perhaps it’s time to go down that road.

Later that evening, Palermo brushes his teeth, strips down to a wife beater and boxers. He walks down the hall quietly, on the balls of his feet, and pauses for a moment outside of Berlín’s room. There’s no noise, but the light is still on.

Next to his room, muffled moans are coming from Tokio’s.

Palermo lingers a moment later, then shakes himself and keeps walking. He finds the door he’s reasonably sure is Helsinki’s. He runs a hand through his hair and stands up taller.

“Palermo.”

He spins around. Behind him, the Professor has appeared on noiseless feet and is frowning. He’s still wearing his clothes from today, that awfully nerdy button-up and slacks combination, with an atrocious sweater that’s made his alias all the more appropriate.

“You know that’s not such a good idea.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Palermo says, blinking.

“Don’t play dumb. It’s never been a good look on you.”

Palermo leers at him. “Is it wrong for a man to want to blow off some steam?”

The Professor’s lips press into a thin line. “A man can _blow off some steam_ by himself.”

“Oh, really!” Palermo says, delighted. “Tell me, is that how you do it?”

The Professor goes red.

“I bet it is. I bet you sit in the classroom and think about what a good job you’ve done that day, all that money you’re going to steal, and you don’t even take off your tie, you just unzip your pants-”

“Goodnight, Palermo,” the Professor says firmly.

“You know, I’m one of the few people in this house who hasn’t been getting in on the action,” Palermo calls after him.

The Professor stops and turns, though he seems pained to do so. “That’s not the problem. He’ll get jealous. I don’t need that on my plate.”

Palermo’s joy is doused in an instant. “Right, sure. Because we all know he’s taken such an interest in me recently, anyway.”

The Professor seems torn between frustration and pity. The overall effect leaves him looking like a disgruntled stray. “Big picture, Palermo. Please.”

“Goodnight, Professor,” Palermo dismisses. The Professor, mercifully, vanishes back into his room and closes the door.

Palermo stands outside of Helsinki’s door for a long while, chewing his lip. Then, finally, he turns on his heel and goes back to bed. It takes him hours to fall asleep.

*

Palermo doesn’t intend to hand the Professor a victory, but he abandons his halfhearted sexual efforts after that.

It’s not like it costs him too much. In any case, the only person he has any desire to sleep with hasn’t been giving him the time of day.

Palermo tries, and fails, and tries again not to be disappointed by this. They had agreed to this job, to professionalism. They had promised the Professor to play by his rules, and for all of Berlín’s rebellious tendencies, he’s fastidious as a nun when it comes to his work.

But still. It would be nice to have at least some acknowledgment of where they left things. Hell, Palermo would settle for a knowing smile, at this point.

The direct result is that he spends a lot of time brooding and a lot more time drinking. Sure, he attends class like a good boy, chimes in with knowledge of anything technical when needed. Has the Professor’s six, so to speak. He does his homework and drinks enough coffee to persuade himself that he isn’t hungover most of the time.

His loneliness is so pervasive that a knock on his door one evening startles him.

The door opens before Palermo has the chance to get up from his bed. In the threshold is the gypsy woman, Nairobi. She seems none too happy. 

“Something bothering you?” Palermo pushes down a faint sense of apprehension. He’s realized what the Professor likely hasn’t yet: that out of the entire group, she’s the only one to fear.

“Why do I have the feeling the Professor has trapped us all in here with a ticking time bomb?”

Palermo laughs drily. “Oh, sweetheart. That’s just how he is on a normal day, even without Europe’s finest degenerates under his roof. Associating with the Professor means becoming somewhat of an explosives specialist yourself.”

Nairobi casts him an mistrustful eye and says nothing. She enters and runs her fingers over his dresser, the black tie he’s left draped over the back of his chair. Her silence makes him uneasy.

“Are you fucking?” she asks suddenly.

“God, I wish,” Palermo says. “Fucking whom?”

“Berlín.”

Palermo stifles an inhale, instead adopting the polite mien of someone bored with the topic at hand. “No.” 

Years ago, Berlín had taught him that using too many words was a reliable indicator of lying. Lucky for both of them, Palermo thinks ruefully, he’s telling the truth anyway.

Nairobi stares at him; he stares back and doesn’t blink. After a second, she nods a little, as if accepting his answer.

Palermo relaxes incrementally.

“Okay. But you want to fuck him?”

Palermo deflects. “I mean, would you not?”

“He’s a sociopathic, misogynistic pig,” Nairobi says, grimacing.

“That doesn’t answer the question.” Palermo lies down on his bed, winks invitingly. “You don’t have to like someone to have sex with them.” 

“Truly disgusting. A monster. You too,” Nairobi says. And then, to his surprise, she crawls into bed next to him and throws a skinny arm around his waist.

Palermo stiffens. “What is this.”

“This?” Nairobi rubs his back; Palermo resists every urge in his body to sink into it. “This is affection, something you seem to be desperately short on.”

Palermo jumps up. “I’m not interested.”

“Oh, please.” Nairobi stands as well. “That’s obvious. But you know that affection can mean more than just mashing genitals together, achieving orgasm, rolling over, and saying goodnight? Right?”

“Of course I know that,” Palermo snaps. 

Nairobi tips her head to the side to regard him. If he didn’t know better, he would think the look in her eyes is something like pity, which doesn’t make much sense.

“Well, good. Maybe someday, you’d like to try friendship on for size,” she says.

“Friendship,” Palermo repeats dubiously.

“Uh-huh. But if that’s not on the table, I might be in the market for a baby daddy, yeah? Little stud like you?” She pushes his head and he swats at her, but she’s laughing.

“You must be joking.”

“I’m completely serious. You’re only halfway an idiot, whereas everyone else in this house is a full idiot,” Nairobi says, a wicked grin splitting her face.

“Get out,” Palermo says, but not before she wraps her arms around him and holds on for a second.

The last time anyone reached out to touch him was three months ago. Palermo hesitates, then hugs her back.

“Tell him how you feel,” Nairobi whispers in his ear, and laughs again when he pushes her away, shuts the door in her face.

*

Palermo takes her advice.

About a week later, he waits until everyone has retreated to their rooms again before slinking down the hallway. The door he’s seeking is cracked open, sounds of opera music spilling from inside. He knocks.

“Come in,” says a low voice.

Palermo enters.

The Professor is at his desk, reading. He’s wearing a ridiculous pair of striped pajamas; Palermo would laugh, but for the fact that he’s never seen anyone look less ironic in his life.

“Palermo.” The Professor puts his book down. “What’s on your mind?”

Too many things, recently. Not enough. Palermo smiles politely. “Just saying hello. Wanted to see how you’re feeling.”

“I’m well, thank you,” the Professor says. Palermo has to respect him: even in the world’s most absurd nighttime outfit, the Professor looks at ease, in charge. He’s fallen into his role as their leader as naturally as breathing. “Yourself?”

Palermo opens his mouth, thinks of Nairobi. Closes it. “I’m fine. Missing him.”

It isn’t necessary to clarify the person in question. The Professor gives him a slight nod. “You miss the connection you’d fostered the last time you planned a heist together.”

“I-” Palermo blinks. Sometime in the past few months, the Professor had scraped together an ounce of emotional intelligence, apparently. Palermo wonders where he’d gotten it from, and how he’ll put it to use while it lasts. “How did you know?”

The Professor doesn’t immediately answer him. Then he straightens, assuming a posture Palermo has been identifying as “the lecturer.” Predictably, he nudges his glasses up his nose.

“Are you familiar with the Sacred Band of Thebes?”

“Is that a musical group?”

The Professor leans forward. “They were an elite force in ancient Greece consisting of three hundred men. Their accomplishments in battle were… nothing short of incredible.”

“Sure, I’ve seen that movie. What’s your point?”

“You haven’t.” The Professor smiles. “They were lovers, Palermo. A hundred and fifty pairs. It was said that their devotion to each other made them better soldiers.”

Palermo inhales. “Why are you telling me this?”

Suddenly, the Professor seems unable to meet his eyes, and his shoulders drop. “I was wrong to split up you and Berlín,” he says at last. “You need each other. Make each other better.”

Palermo stares. 

“I mean,” the Professor says, quiet, “you’re going to be the death of me, but somehow, that’s still better than the alternative.”

“Is that an apology?” Palermo says, and laughs. “Professor!”

The Professor clenches his teeth.

Palermo stops laughing. “It doesn’t matter, though,” he says. “He hasn’t even spoken to me since - well. Since that night.”

They look at each other, and Palermo knows the Professor is recollecting their brief, lopsided struggle by the heating pipe just as clearly as he is. The Professor clears his throat. “He’s scared, Palermo.”

“Scared,” Palermo scoffs.

“Do you remember when we met?”

Of course Palermo does. Berlín’s first wedding. “That awful Frenchwoman.” 

The Professor had barely been out of his teens at that point, Palermo not much older. They’d stood together in a corner of the reception hall, united by their shared distaste, until Berlín had tipped an entire glass of champagne over his brother’s head and caused him to storm off.

“Something I never told you,” the Professor says, “was that, when Berlín invited me to that wedding, he called me and said, ‘come at once, I’ve met the love of my life. Oh and, please be the best man at my wedding, you’re going to adore my bride.’ I have strong reason now to think he was referring to two different people.”

Palermo’s heartbeat falters. He stares at the floor and swallows around the lump in his throat.

“Just,” the Professor says, shrugging, “I’d hope you would know that even when he walks away from you, you’re still on his mind.”

Palermo kisses his forehead. “I love you so much, have I ever said so?”

“Palermo.” The Professor smiles. “Whether you know it or not, you say it every day.”

*

After that night, Palermo allows himself to relax, if not just a little. He jokes around with the others, kicks everyone’s ass at soccer, carefully avoids flirting with Helsinki.

The days tick by.

As the date of invasion approaches, the mood in the house grows somber. Their romps in the yard become fewer and fewer, replaced by more planning, more studying. Even Denver can be seen in the kitchen, tongue between his teeth as he reviews sketches and notes. Palermo lets himself get swept up in it, all the while nursing the ache in his chest like it’s a dear friend.

The night before the heist, no one can sleep. They all stay up late; Tokio makes a move to break out some liquor, quickly aborted by a murderous flash of the Professor’s eyes. They buzz around the house, destroying evidence, rubbing down every surface with alcohol. Finally, drooping with exhaustion, everyone heads off to their separate rooms, presumably to lie awake in anxious silence.

Palermo has done plenty of heists - they all have - but never one with stakes this high. He should be fearful, and he is. Yet even as he lies on his bed, atop sheets still freshly made, he finds his thoughts turning to the Bank of Spain. To an underwater cavern of gold.

There’s a knock. Palermo sits up. 

The door opens, and Berlín is standing in the doorway. They look at one another. 

“May I come in?”

Palermo swallows. “Sure. Yes.”

Berlín enters. He’s still fully dressed, wearing a suit and bowtie as if they had just come back from an evening at the cocktail bar. In his hand is a bottle of wine and two glasses, which he sets down on Palermo’s desk.

“Why are you here?”

It’s not what Palermo wants to ask, but Berlín is uncorking the top of the bottle and pouring it out into the two glasses, and Palermo is disarmed. Berlín picks one up, gives it a whiff, and, with a nod, hands the other to Palermo.

“I can’t sleep,” Berlín says simply. He takes a sip. “Rio and Tokio are fucking loud enough to wake the dead. Or crying, or breaking up, or something. Well, that’s been every night, but sort of disrespectful tonight of all times, don’t you think?”

Palermo says nothing.

“So I came to have a drink with you.” Berlín gives him a half-smile. “Try it, it’s good.”

Despite himself, Palermo flashes back to the last time they were meant to be sharing a bottle of wine. Berlín isn’t meeting his eyes, telling Palermo that he must recall, too.

“So how is-” he stops himself. “Florence?”

Berlín nods. “The Professor used to have contact with her. As far as I know, she’s alright. They haven’t spoken for a few months. She may be trying to avoid entanglement with all of this.”

“Oh.” Palermo searches himself and is surprised to find that he’s genuinely sorry. “That’s too bad. I’m sure she’ll find you when this is over.”

“Palermo.” Berlín laughs softly. “You don’t need to pretend.”

“I’m not!”

“Nor do you need to worry,” Berlín says, taking a few steps toward where he’s still seated on the bed. “For all intents and purposes, I’m going to assume we are divorced.”

Palermo can’t stand the way his heart speeds up at those words. After all, it’s the fifth time he’s heard that particular piece of news. “Why?”

Berlín sits down next to him. “For one, saying that I’ve had five marriages and five divorces makes for a nicer story. Flows better.”

Palermo looks down at his glass.

“And I still listen to recordings of her music sometimes late at night, if I can’t sleep. At least I’ll always have that.”

“Sure.” Palermo takes a drink. 

“But I wouldn’t want to speak with her anyway, now, even if we did find her. I have something more important to think about.”

“The heist. Survival,” Palermo says.

“I’m not talking about the heist.” 

Palermo lifts his head. Berlín is meeting his gaze steadily, too close and too intense. He slides one hand up Palermo’s thigh, and Palermo jerks away.

There’s a tense pause in which neither of them moves.

“You’re scared of me,” Berlín says. It’s not a question.

Palermo exhales slowly. “Not of you. Of what you can do to me.”

Berlín removes his hand from Palermo’s leg. “It's a mutual vulnerability.”

“Oh, really?” Palermo snaps. “Is that why you’ve been avoiding me since the others arrived? Afraid of looking _weak_?”

“Yes,” Berlín says. It hits Palermo like a punch to the gut. “Not looking weak, being weak. What would happen if anyone knew? You could become a target in order to incapacitate me. I can’t put you at risk like that.”

Anger is clawing at Palermo’s throat. “And what if that’s a risk I’m willing to take?”

“You don’t get a choice,” Berlín says sharply. “You think that we’re the exception to the rule? That we can become involved and survive unscathed? Take those two-” he jerks his head in the direction of Tokio’s room, “you think they aren’t jeopardizing our lives every day? This isn’t a fucking romance movie.”

Palermo stands. He’s surprised to find his glass empty, more surprised still that he hasn’t shattered the stem in his grip. He puts it down. “Okay,” he says. “Okay. So why are you here, then?”

Berlín sighs, looking weary, looking his age. He sets his own glass on the floor. “Because there’s a strong probability we won’t survive tomorrow. And I wanted to see your face before it disappears behind the mask.”

“Don’t play with me,” Palermo says in a whisper. Suddenly, he’s more exhausted than he’s been these past few months.

Berlín rises to meet him. “Palermo. You still don’t think me capable of loving you?”

Palermo only flinches a little when Berlín cups his face. He’s proud of himself for that. “You? Please.” He attempts a smile. “You love anything with a pulse. Me, I’m not capable of being loved.”

“One day,” Berlín says softly, “you’ll learn you’re not the victim you think you are.”

“Victim, huh?” Palermo reaches up to hold onto Berlín’s wrist. “What would you know about that?”

Berlín looks away. After a moment, he drops his hands and sits back down on the bed. “Being apart from you wasn’t- has never been easy.”

Palermo takes two steps; in a heartbeat, he’s standing over Berlín, threading one hand through Berlín’s hair. “Well. Here I am.”

They stare at one another. A challenge.

“Kiss me,” Berlín says, and Palermo does.

The feeling that floods him is as powerful as the first time, as the last time. In the back of his mind, Palermo wonders if he’ll ever get used to it, or if every time Berlín’s lips will feel like a burn. He intends to be quiet, coy, but then Berlín wraps both his hands around Palermo’s back and drags him down into his lap. Palermo groans into his mouth and grinds against him.

He’s hard already, has been since Berlín first sat down on his bed. In fact, he’s only somewhat confident that he can avoid coming in his pants like a teenager if Berlín keeps licking into his mouth like that.

Berlín pulls Palermo’s shirt up and over his head, buries his face in Palermo’s chest and licks a firm stripe up to his throat. Palermo fights back a whine. Berlín tugs at the waistband of his boxers; Palermo pulls them down in what he can only assume is record time, even for him, and suddenly, he’s naked. 

Naked and aroused, and in the lap of his best friend, who’s still fully clothed, including a fucking bowtie. Palermo feels the wild urge to laugh, and so he does.

“Something funny?” Berlín is breathing heavily. He runs one delightful finger up the inside of Palermo’s thigh, making him shiver.

“You’ve never done this with a man before, huh?” Palermo says, teasing even despite the ache in his chest. He unbuttons the first few buttons of Berlín’s shirt to kiss the skin there.

Berlín laughs, low and easy. The sound rumbles through him, goes straight to his dick. “I’m not worried.”

“What are you- oh.” Palermo’s eyes widen. Those deft hands have flipped him around so that he’s now sitting in Berlín’s lap, his back pressed flush against Berlín’s chest. Berlín leans them back slightly and hooks his chin over Palermo’s shoulder.

“I know you,” Berlín whispers into the shell of his ear, wrapping one hand around his dick, and so help him if it doesn’t nearly make Palermo come right then and there. Palermo moans, shameless and wanton.

“You never shut up, do you?” Berlín says, and it’s almost admiring. He puts his palm over Palermo’s mouth. Palermo licks at it reverently, rejoicing in the sharp inhale it earns him from Berlín. With sufficient spit, Berlín brings his hand back down to Palermo’s dick, stroking up and down smoothly.

It shouldn’t be as good as it is. Handjobs have always been third-tier sex for Palermo, an act more pleasantly and efficiently done by himself. And yet, there’s something about watching Berlín’s hand slide up and down that’s driving him to the brink of insanity. He feels as if he’s in grade school again, discovering his own body through the eyes of another. Learning how his pleasure can be someone else’s, too.

Someone who is watching just as keenly, breath hot against his ear.

“So much for desire,” Palermo gasps out. “You’re still telling me you don’t want this?”

“Want this?” Berlín repeats, so deep it's a growl. He bites the back of Palermo’s neck. The hand around his dick squeezes, skirting the line between pleasure and pain; Palermo moans again. “You belong to me. Now and always.”

That does it. Palermo comes with a cry, hips snapping forward, spurting over Berlín’s fist and his own stomach.

“Good,” Berlín breathes, kissing his throat, his shoulder. “Beautiful.”

Palermo slumps back against Berlín’s chest, trembling with the aftershocks. He turns his head to the side and Berlín is there, kissing him through it.

He comes down slowly, hazily, flashing back to the few and short-lived flings he’s had in past years. Without fail, his orgasm would be punctuated by a profound sense of shame, a need to wash up and bolt as quickly as possible. Palermo searches his own heart and finds nothing of the sort now.

Berlín is running a calm hand, the one that didn’t just jerk him off, up and down his leg. For the first time, Palermo registers Berlín’s own erection pressing up against his ass. 

He stands, a little woozy, and finds a tissue to clean himself up with. When he turns around again, Berlín is watching him with the hint of a smile.

There’s so much Palermo wants to say. _We should’ve done this years ago_ and _I love you_ and _don’t ever leave me again_ all seem like viable candidates. 

He doesn’t know where to begin. He takes these thoughts that normally spill out of him far too easy and presses them against Berlín’s lips instead, straddling him on the mattress.

For a long time, they kiss one another, soft and lazy. Palermo takes his time undoing Berlín’s bowtie, unbuttoning Berlín’s shirt and sliding it off of his shoulders. He savors the discomfort of Berlín’s belt against his bare waist before he takes that off, too. Piece by piece, he strips off Berlín’s clothing, letting himself touch and taste parts of him he’d never accessed before.

“Shall I?” Palermo murmurs when Berlín is finally naked beneath him. He wants to look, to admire, but the part of his brain reserved for processing anything has shut off long ago. Berlín's dick is nudging against his hip, hard and leaking, and Palermo barely has the space to breathe, let alone think about anything else. “I wasn’t joking. I can offer you masterful fellatio.”

Berlín smiles. His fingers are carding through Palermo’s hair. “We’ll have time for that,” he says, like a promise. “I want you to look at me.”

If Palermo hadn’t been thoroughly wrecked before, it’s nothing compared to now. His heart clenches in his chest, joy and pain in equal measure. Palermo supposes that’s what people would call love: handing someone else the power to make him feel. 

He meets Berlín’s gaze as he takes his dick in hand. It’s not the best angle, and he wants so much more: to let Berlín penetrate him, to take him into his mouth, to give him all the most vulnerable parts of himself. But all of that is forgotten the instant Berlín’s eyes flutter a little, closed and open. “Oh.”

Palermo leans down so that their lips are barely brushing. “Let go. It’s okay.”

Berlín’s jaw falls open. His breath is coming in soft gasps, audible only because Palermo is just above him, leaning down to kiss him. His wrist is starting to cramp, but he couldn’t stop if his life depended on it.

“Andrés,” he whispers.

“Martín.” 

Their eyes wide open, they look at one another. And then, sighing blissfully, Andrés comes, arching his back with a sweet desperation.

Martín smiles; his cheeks are wet. “Andrés,” he says. “My love. Andrés.”

Andrés reaches up and holds Martín’s face, sweeping a thumb over his cheekbone. “Stay with me,” he says.

Martín kisses his palm. His laugh is more like a sob. “I don’t know how not to.”

Just after midnight on the day of the biggest heist in Spanish history, moonlight is filtering through ratty blinds. It paints the room in a muted silver, illuminating Andrés and Martín as they hold one another, and sleep.

*

This is a story in which Martín and Andrés - aliases Palermo and Berlín - don red jumpsuits and Dalí masks, nodding at each other in the back of a van that bumps its way toward the Royal Mint of Spain.

This is a story in which they break into the Mint, watched over by Sergio - alias the Professor - brother, friend, mastermind, protector.

If they make it out again, well. That’s a story for another time. 

But in this one, they go in together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honesty hour: I had no interest at all in this ship until the season 4 finale. Then I breathlessly rewatched every single one of their scenes together, lost my entire mind, and now can't listen to "Who Can It Be Now?" without crying a little on the inside (and outside). This fic was born pretty much immediately after that.
> 
> In retrospect, the show created a highly compelling story, but it barely scratches the surface. I wanted to fill some of those gaps, and quickly realized that I couldn't do so without also involving Sergio. To me, it's a beautiful, messy, toxic love story between not two, but three people, and I wanted to spend some time exploring the various threads tying them together: romantic, platonic, familial. I hope the show gives us a lot more of these boys, in some way or another.
> 
> In any case, thank you so, so much to each and every one of you who's read, shared, left kudos, and/or commented on this fic! Your support means more to me than I could ever say. If I've made you a fraction as happy as you have me, then I'll have done my job. Los quiero a todos!
> 
> As always, come say hello on [tumblr](https://rainbowcat-writes.tumblr.com).


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